


icarus

by asteronomic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Human, Disillusionment, Eating Disorders, F/F, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Marriage, Milan, Modeling, New York City, Nyotalia, Pining, Smoking, a bit of the old lesbian sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteronomic/pseuds/asteronomic
Summary: On a balcony in one of New York's finest neighbourhoods, Alice reflects on how she ended up in such a dismal mess.





	icarus

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 2 of the hetalia writers' discord event ‘her kind’, with the theme of _memories_.

—and it’s not even as if she _wanted_ this, she never _asked_ to be engaged in such an affair, she never _chose_ to be wedded to New York’s most unintelligible bachelor — but c’est la fucking vie, she supposes, and as Father says, she should be _grateful_ , she’s lucky someone as affluent as Jones would even _look_ at her after all of this. She’s disgraced the family name, and this is her comeuppance. It tastes like his sticky syrup and defeat.

She takes a long drag from her cigarette, and closes her eyes. If she tries hard enough, she can almost pretend the artificial Upper East Side air is her Milanese smog; if she tries hard enough, she can almost convince herself she’s home.

The sickly sweet smell of strawberries and sugar has her swallowing her sorrows. She supposes it’s for the best. She supposes that maybe, on some level, this will be good for her — Jones is well-meaning, after all, and not awful-looking, for an overgrown frat boy. She supposes that she might just have gone a little too far in Italy — she _might_ have fucked up, just a little bit. It isn’t good, she _supposes_ , that the show that was meant to be the pinnacle of her career ended with the contents of her stomach in someone’s new Bermuda and grainy photos of the whole catastrophe. 

But Alice E. Kirkland does not fucking _stop_ until everything is fucking _perfect_ , and everything _wasn’t_ fucking perfect, so really, what choice—

—but there was no element of _choice_ in it. She knows that. She lost control the first time she looked in the cracked mirror in her shitty flat in that Milanese suburb and decided to swap out dinner with a cigarette. Marianne _told_ her to get her shit together, and maybe if she’d fucking _listened_ —

Marianne had said, one day, that of all the models in Milan, Alice was the only masterpiece. All the others were mannequins — pretty, pristine _poupées_ , but clothes-horses nonetheless — but Alice, _Alice_ was the only one who wore the clothes, who _made_ the outfit. She said Alice was parfait, _perfetto_ , perfect. And then she’d made Alice _feel_ pretty damn near perfect, one hand in her hair and the other sneaking under her shirt and soft, tender lips brushing her collarbones. And then the same hands gripping her hair, the same lips now biting, heavy, heady breaths and desperation — smooth, porcelain skin peppered with red marks. 

Alice breathes out, bony hands shaking as she leans against the balcony railing. Jones could walk through the front door any second, throw his briefcase on the mahogany table and kiss her with sticky, sugary lips. 

She had a career in Milan, she had a life in Milan, and she had Marianne in Milan. She had no money, she had no dignity and she had no stability, but she had her own piece of the world for the first time in her artificial life. But it wasn’t enough, she had to be more perfect, _always_ more perfect, until perfection was just a number on a scale and Marianne’s concern was an enemy and she drove it all away and then she _crashed_ —

“Oh, Icarus,” she says to herself. “You have flown too close to the sun.”

Marianne had promised never to leave her, had whispered words of love in her ear and tucked her hair behind her ears and kissed her tenderly. They’d talked about their future, about their plans, about how Alice would make it to the top of the world, stand on the international stage, they’d throw themselves into a new, golden millennium with hopes and dreams and promises—

The front door opens. Jones walks into the apartment. His briefcase clatters on the mahogany table. Alice puts out her cigarette, and he kisses her with his sticky, boyish lips.

**Author's Note:**

> literally not even proofread. i apologise. my tumblr is scandinavienne.  
> poupées = dolls  
> parfait = perfect  
> perfetto = perfect


End file.
